Page 97 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Which is a problem. A huge, penis-shaped, smirking problem.
Especially when the man is currently shirtless, leaning against the kitchen island like he owns every inch of this house—including the space in my brain that he’s been squatting in rent-free—and wielding a pen like it’s a mic and he’s about to deliver the closing arguments in the world’s most unnecessary case: Why Olivia Should Sign the Roommate Benefits Agreement.
It all started with that kiss, his regular teasing and takeout dinner. We went from agreeing to set boundaries to now discussing . . . this.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this nonsense. You’re not even drunk,” I accuse, eyeing the bottle of wine he opened as if he’s hosting a very exclusive TED Talk on Poor Decisions and Red Flags.
Lucian grins—slow and smug, like his charm ages in oak barrels. “Not true. I’m wine-tipsy. There’s a difference.”
“Wine-tipsy,” I repeat, shoving a dumpling into my mouth. “You made that up.”
“I did not. Wine-tipsy is when you’re just sober enough to sound brilliant and just buzzed enough to get away with bullshit.” He lifts his glass and clinks it against mine. “To loopholes.”
I narrow my eyes. “That feels like a threat. I want this agreement to be...”
“A promise,” he interrupts smoothly, nudging a single sheet of paper toward me.
I glance at it. Then at him.
Then, back at it.
It says—because of course it does—Roommates with Benefits: Terms and Conditions.
I blink. “You wrote a sex contract.”
“Not a sex contract,” he corrects, clearly offended. “A lifestyle alignment document. With benefits.”
I snort. “Lucian.”
“Liv.”
“I’m not signing a ‘lifestyle’ anything. Especially not one where the ink smells like cologne and poor choices.”
He sips wine and tilts his head like he’s posing for a cologne ad. “You kissed me.”
My stomach flutters like a traitor.
“You kissed me back,” he adds, voice lowering just enough to get under my skin. “You also moaned. A little.”
“I choked on my own saliva.”
“And grinded against me,” he adds.
“That was a reflex,” I snap, pointing a chopstick at him. “Like when you flinch at a balloon popping.”
“Oh, so now I’m a balloon?” His grin turns lethal. “Was I full of air or confetti?”
“Gas. Mostly gas.”
Lucian throws his head back and laughs, full, bright, and way too attractive. Then he leans in like he’s about to confess a secret he already knows I want to hear.
“Look, all I’m saying is we’re living together. We clearly have . . . tension.”
“Which I’m managing,” I argue. “You infuriate me and yet look at me. I’m cool as a cucumber. No yelling, no attempts to bury you under Sarah’s bed . . . no need for this agreement.”
He ignores me entirely. “And we’re adults. Hot, intelligent, highly responsible adults with very real, very physical needs.”
“That’s not a medical diagnosis.”
